Conceptual Prude
by Zaedah
Summary: They taught me superpowers. I am using them now... Very nearly a companion to Mathematically Starving.


This could be considered an addition to Mathematically Starving. But reading that story is not necessary to (hopefully) appreciate this one. Although I encourage the effort anyway!

**Conceptual Prude**

The FBI provides a full gamut of training on every aspect of human behavior. And I paid attention. Schoolwork was hardly my favored pastime as a child, and at first I struggled to focus on the workload: search and seizure limitations, rules of confessions and admissions, privileged communications, documentary evidence, real evidence and demonstrative evidence. I was a gung-ho and these areas of study were painfully tedious. The target range was more my style.

But I soon developed an appreciation for the value of application. Droll professors gave way to experienced field agents. After a class on suspect interviewing by NeuroLinguistic Programming, I starting sitting up straighter. And in the classes that followed, I began taking notes with a speed that rivaled Charlie's equation solving. Once we got the procedural stuff out of the way, the studies posed a virtual feast of knowledge, which I greedily devoured…

Because they taught me superpowers.

Classes on body language, seminars on tells, lectures on criminal motivation. I even recall a three hour discourse on posture. I was shown how to pick a stranger out of a crowd and work up a detailed profile while maintaining a protective distance. The basis for my ability to read others was formed in these early lessons. And in the years since Quantico, I have added a host of supplemental knowledge.

I am using them now.

After too long in this line of work, I have seen others grow complacent; neglect their skills and become ready targets for the criminal element. So I practice, keeping my talents honed and fresh. I understand all too well how such practice could one day save my life.

Sitting on a bench at Cal-Sci, I resolve to wait for Charlie by profiling the students gathered at this early hour in the courtyard. I am poised at the south end. Before me, round tables are scattered on the patio surface and excited chatter is wafting from them to my ears; words indiscernible but not necessary. They display themselves in their gestures, their every fidget and tic. And yes, their posture. My face remains impassive even as the internal grin forms. These kids are too obvious. I've got a minor pickpocket, a pot dealer and a virgin. And that's only the first table.

As time passes, the tide of jocks, metrosexuals and the obligatory brainiac chicks ebb and flow through this concourse. The only constant has been the couple off to the left. I've ignored them until now because the initial findings were rather dull. He, in slacker garb of t-shirt and jeans, and she, in a trendy yet casual coordinated outfit. Heads huddled together over undoubtedly technical documents fascinating only to them, their conversation knowing no pauses. I'd spotted them earlier, but found nothing worth examining; there was little that wasn't clear within the first 3 seconds. Looking like every other student in the courtyard, and possibly in the world, I decide to scout for new faces to scrutinize. And then I see…

It's the subtle hand under the table that catches my peripheral vision. By itself, the hand is unremarkable, but the placement? Well, let's just say it lacks the innocence our sensibilities expect in a public place. My attention snaps up to her face, which gives no clue, no signal of what has happened below the table top. Actually, both of their eyes seem to only take in the papers before them. Perhaps the thigh caress was unintentional? Certainly there's not so much as a hint of impropriety on their features. And I, the trained FBI agent who nothing can surprise, am getting just a bit uncomfortable. Here on my bench, I watch the next step with what I fear is barely concealed shock. Good thing I'm not the one being profiled.

Because the girl's hand is moving again. Higher this time and all support for the 'accidental' theory is shot. And again, no reaction is visible as they continue their discussion, no more or less animated than before. She misses 'the spot' by just a few inches, unquestionably by design. And suddenly I feel for the poor guy, being teased like this out in the open with no recourse. He certainly can't retaliate, not in the midst of an audience. Even an audience of one. Can he?

In my life, I have had encounters with wily women. And I consider myself as open to… creative expressions as the next law enforcement officer. We tend to be a confident group; our badge comes with a side order of testosterone, after all. But even I have limits, points at which I am hesitant. The boldness being displayed here is… well, these aren't exactly students. Is there an acceptable excuse for exhibitionist teachers? And then it happens.

Recognizing that the target has been purposely avoided, the guy brings his hand down to cover hers and…shall we say… helps her find it. I think I've stopped breathing. All that 'supplemental knowledge' I thought I'd built over the years sure as hell didn't cover this.

And I understand that it's not the actions themselves that currently have me floored. It's the actions in conjunction with the identity of these public indecency perpetrators.

Don't get me wrong, I can accept the concept that my brother has a sex life. But that kind of sex life? I am seeing him differently now, which just proves what they say about 'a little knowledge.' Apparently Charlie was no prude. And apparently…I am.


End file.
